


Give a Man a Nightmare

by theplotholesmademedoit



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: (Well hints of it), Bones being bones, Established Relationship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Outsider, Some Fluff, Soul Bond, hints of smut too, if you don't laugh at least once I've failed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:43:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplotholesmademedoit/pseuds/theplotholesmademedoit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard McCoy is having a bad day.</p><p>or</p><p>That time when Murphy's Law seems to have a personal vendetta against Bones, he learns more about Vulcan anatomy than he ever wanted to know, and everything is Jim's fault. Every goddamned thing.</p><p>(pppsstt Spock and Jim have some nice moments both dirty and adorable if that's what you're looking for :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give a Man a Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> A thanks and an oversized hug to my bran-spankin-new beta SpazzyNinjaFish!I'm a dyslexic with ADHD, so here impressive editing skills are no simple feat.
> 
> So this is my attempt at humor. That and there's also a lot of me taking pleasure from Bones's sufferings. And Jim and Spock are gag-worthy in love, obviously. Enjoy, and thank you for reading!

Give a Man a Nightmare

 

Leonard McCoy is having a bad day.

            It started with a bump right on the patch of hair at the crown of his skull that was _not_ thinning (contrary to the vocalizations of certain idiotic starship Captain) when he turned into the wall at 0400, a whole two hours before he had to be up. Then, just as he was drifting off again, the shrill and all too enthusiastic beeping of his alarm startled him out of dream and straight on to the floor. This caused the bump on his head to gain a companion of a bruise on the plump of his ass.

            As he let out a string of curses that would turn a sailor scarlet and stumbled to his closet, he found that his only available uniform was _purple_.

 This was because his overworked yeoman had accidently (or so said the long-lashed she-witch) slipped it into a load of laundry entirely made up of red security shirts and all of his other _blue_ ones were covered in various alien goo or as shredded as the bulk of Jim’s command uniforms. (He suspected Spock played a key role in the exorbitant amount of shirts that man went through, though he had no proof and _really_ didn’t want any).

            Having a valid reason didn’t make him any more happy to spend majority of the morning looking like a disgruntled petunia and being giggled at by a _very mature_ captain, the bridge crew, and his medical staff. Well - Spock didn’t giggle so much as raise an eyebrow and look especially superior. Chapel, on the other hand, had yet to succeed in calling him “sir” without forcefully biting her lip.

            Due to the purple shirt fiasco, which involved a very heated conversation with the guilty yeoman, he was late for breakfast. And since the universe was going out of its way to give him the perfect morning, the moment he walked into the mess hall the replicators went on the fritz and refused to produce coffee that actually contained _caffeine._

Spock suggested drinking tea, so McCoy pointedly told him he’d rather bump uglies with a Klingon. Naturally, Spock responded with a logical rebuff that he’s pretty sure implied his face looked like Klingon genitalia. If Scotty spewing his oatmeal was anything to go by, that is.  

            So it was with a headache and a heavy sprinkling of glaring that he braved a full sickbay of whining officers with a particularly stubborn strain of Terran flu.

            Needless to say, his bedside manner was a wee bit less than peachy.

            And then came the mission roster. The Captain, who was still on the mend from bringing the particularly stubborn strain of Terran flu to the Enterprise in the first place, had put himself in the landing party for and exploratory mission on the planet Cerberus III.

See these wrinkle lines? All Jim’s fault. Every damn one of them.

            When Bones attempted to dissuade him with the full force of his current grumpiness and his “I’m a doctor, dammit!” Jim had just given him his usual bright-eyed smile. With a wave of his hand he said, “I’m fine Bones, don’t worry about it. Besides, Spock’s going with me, and he hovers worse than you do - which I must admit is saying something. I won’t be pushing myself to hard.  Right, Mr. Spock?”

            Spock lifted the black slash of his eyebrow, “I am not capable of elevating myself from the ground at a sustained position without the assistance of machinery. Also, I do not believe I would ‘hover’ less effectively than doctor McCoy should I ever become able to do so, as my efficiency exceeds his in the majority of fields, save medicine. However, your safety is my foremost priority and I will ensure you do not over-exert yourself,” then he looked straight at Jim with an almost unnoticeable upwards tweak of his lips and finished, “Even if my superior strength must be utilized.”

The matter was unfortunately settled because Jim's smile had gone all custard cream mush with a dash of mischief, and he and Spock hightailed out of the bridge. For briefing. Or mission planning. Or something that was obviously official ship’s business.

              So maybe McCoy made a habit of arguing with Spock's seal tight logic, but it was hard to muster a retort for that on the spot. Regardless, he tried on his way back to sickbay, wallowing over the medical safety of Jim's decision as he shuffled his feet. It also involved a good bit of grumbling to himself and glaring at ensigns who actual had the gall to be looking chipper.

This took all of three minutes, after which he stopped short just outside of sickbay with an exclamation that had something to do with pointy-eared bastard and whipped around. Unconcerned with a startled young nurse who squeaked when he nearly bumped into her, he marched to Jim's quarters and swooshed through the door without knocking, a retort and the orders of a medical professional ready to shot from his lips.

That was when his day went from bad to this-will-probably-require-therapy-in-the-near-future.

That retort he was working on? Dead and gone. Those details of his best friends’ sex life he didn’t want? Alive and _humping_.

Yes, Spock had shredded Jim's uniform like made of tissue paper and no, Bones really didn't need to see the way Jim tipped his head back and groaned, dirty and rough as gravel. Or how Jim bucked and jerked his hips and how Spock _growled._ In fact, there was absolutely none of it he ever wanted to have engraved in his retinas, where it undoubtedly would stay, immune to the buckets of Brain bleach he vowed to throw at the memory.

He's seen Spock's junk before; he was his doctor for god's sake. Sure, Jim isn't quite the galactic whore his reputation would suggest, but he certainly had got around with an unknown number of species with an equally unknown number alien STD's. So when they started sleeping together, he was morally obligated to get up close (and not personal, thank god) with the more private parts of Spock's anatomy. It’s common medical knowledge that Vulcan's are _hung,_ and Spock's no exception.

But he did absolutely not, under no circumstances, need to expand his understanding of this medical knowledge to include how very, _very_ large and very, _very_ green his first officer was in action.

Again, not enough brain bleach in the universe.

He was so thoroughly traumatized that he dashed out of the room and abandoned all intentions to change Jim's mind. It was hard enough standing in the transporter room willing his face not to turn green.

Green. Ugh.

Because Bones couldn't stop Jim from inevitably getting into to trouble while he still couldn't go more than ten minutes without coughing (which is his own damn fault, since everything was Jim's fault, as he mentioned earlier) things went to Hell.

Forget Hell. Everything crawled up Satan's ass and spawned there.

The original landing party had consisted of the Captain, Spock, Scotty, two security officers and a geologist specialist.

Two hours and a frantic "Beam us up!" later, the landing party consisted of Jim, Spock, Scotty, and crisp number one, two, and three. By 'crisp', McCoy meant that when the swirls of gold became people those officers didn't so much as solidify as turn in to clumps of ash in pools of pink goo the color of expired Pepto-Bismol.

This was one of the many days McCoy was glad he wasn't a yeoman. Cleaning that mess was wasn't exactly on his bucket list.

The worst part though, the part even he couldn't find cynical amusement in, was the look on Jim's face. His hazel eyes were almost always narrowed stone in determination or looped up in amusement. But when he looked at him then, he saw those same warm eyes blown wide, irises shocked in white and looking absolutely terrified.

With that baleful expression as a guide, he followed sweeps of green blood that made a map on Jim's gold tunic like misshapen jade stepping stones to Spock. He was slumped awkwardly in Jim's arms, unconscious and not much better off than crisp one, two, and three.

The following hours were a blur of laser scalpels and dermal regenerators, of Jim and his wild eyes pacing sickbay, and of that green blood slicked everywhere. Spock flat lined twice, and that was fun because not only did he have to yank the logical asshole from the grave by the sheer force of his southern country doctor will, but he had to deal with Jim too.

Due to their 'link', the Captain passed out both times - the second earning him a gash at the base of his neck that required stitches since the idiot's head hit the corner of a shelf on the way down. He was fine, if you didn't count the swarm of adrenaline and worry he was buried in (and it might have been a good thing that Bones had an excuse to give him sedatives, since if there is one thing James Kirk is terrible at it’s sitting idly and waiting). McCoy still added a variety of curses about his lesser opinions of telepathic bonds to his list of complaints.

After a while, Spock still had third degree burns and sickly moss-colored tendrils crawling up his leg and along his arm, stopping just above his heart. But he was also still alive and now relatively stable.

Bones was damn tired and grumpier than a Klingon with a tribble infestation.

Unfortunately, he also had a heart (don't tell anyone, he has a reputation to uphold) so he clasped a hand on Jim's shoulder and pushed a glass of brandy into his clenched fist.

"Your hobgoblin's gonna be fine. Damn green blooded bastard's too stubborn to die anyways."

Jim looked down at the brandy as it see-sawed against the round walls, sliding his fingers over the condensation frosted around it before placing it onto the shelf behind him (the same shelf he now had a nice healing scab slashed over that dark stubble at the bottom of his skull because of). He nodded at Bones, flashing a smile that made a rather pathetic stretch up his cheeks.

Bones’s frown pressed down into his chin and he softened his voice as he said, "I know he took that flame-gun shot for you, but it's not your fault Jim, you gotta know that. Spock won't be too happy if he finds out you've been blaming yourself."

Jim nodded his head up and down slowly, clearing his throat with a low scratching sound that rattled up through his voice box, dying somewhere on his tongue before it could become a word.

"Thanks, Bones. For everything."

"Just doing my job, which is damn hard no thanks to the two of you,” his crooked eyebrows lowered down over his lids, “Get some sleep, Jim. That's a medical order."

            Jim nodded again, but looked like he had no intention of getting shuteye and every intention of parking himself by Spock’s biobed and not moving until the Vulcan was awake and irritating Bones.

 He sighed passive aggressive-if-not-some-what-dramatically and dragged his grumpy self and equally grumpy body to his quarters. He then flopped - fully dressed, blood stained purple shirt and all - on his bed and proceeded to become very lost to the world of the living.

            When he woke up two hours later, less emerging from sleep and more stumbling outwards from it in annoyance, he ground the heels of his palm over his eye sockets and took a well-deserved shower. Unfortunately, said well-deserved shower’s heating equipment malfunctioned, so instead of relaxing in swirls of warm water, he got somewhat clean, a lot frozen, and his balls made an impressive attempt to climb into his ass.

            He shivered, tugged on a clean uniform (also purple, he really needs a new yeoman) and returned to sickbay.

It was well into the ships night when he got there, so he briefly touched base with the on duty staff (whom weren't much more perky than he is, thankfully). He made a quick sweep of the patients in the main area and stabbed a couple unsuspecting crew members with hypos.

            This all goes relatively well, that is if you don’t count the part where a lieutenant missed the vomit bucket in favor of splattering his shoes in yellow juice and chunks. If you were wondering, McCoy counts that part.

            A fresh pair of boots and a twitching vein in his forehead later, he heads to the private room he put Spock in to check up on his condition, and maybe give him a few more hypos if there’s any sass, which the malicious part of his brain hopes there will be. The pad of his index finger is an inch from the open door button when he’s frozen by a glance in the small window.

            It turns out Jim did follow his medical orders. Just not in any way he expected him to.

            The fearless flag ship captain is curled up on Spock’s biobed, most of his body on top of his first officer’s uninjured side. His cheek is mashed in the patch of muscle between Spock’s chest and armpit, one hand spread lightly over the bandages with its wide tan palm cupped over the curve of his ribs, and the other fisted in black hair that that grows in thin speckles below Spock’s collarbone. His mouth has slipped open slightly and there are wet stripes bent down his face, starting at the sweeps of brown eyelashes and ending where they tuck under his jaw. The tear tracks snatch strips of the fluorescent sick bay lights, inking them white and impossible not to notice.

            He is also snoring. Quite loudly, if the fact that McCoy can hear from outside the partially soundproof room is any indicator.

            But Spock is awake and so occupied with tracing the turn of Jim’s brow with his knuckles and trailing his thumb over the wetness on Jim’s check that the ever observant Vulcan doesn't notice McCoy standing stark still outside the door. His eyes are soft, the naked adoration so much brighter than the reflections within them that McCoy feels he’s intruding on something far more intimate the incident the-shall-not-named he witnessed earlier.

            So he drops his hand from the button and takes a quick inventory of the vitals on the chart above the bed. He swallows thickly around the lump that he hadn’t realized had taken up residence in his throat and turns to leave.

            Maybe, it wasn’t such a bad day.

**Author's Note:**

> If I made you laugh I can die happy. If you give me reviews I'll die ecstatic and you can have what's left of my soul! :D


End file.
